By the element of fire all that is imperfect is destroyed and taken away… -Paracelsus
Roy had been practicing alchemy for a little over half his lifetime; he had been eight when his grandfather had given him his first alchemical text, in what the old man had probably thought would be a vain effort to calm and distract an annoying and overly energetic child. Much to his grandfather's surprise – and delight; the man had been something of an alchemist himself – it had not only worked, but worked like a charm.
Roy had taken to alchemy, and never looked back. His mind had absorbed knowledge like a sponge, and by the time he was sixteen, he had developed a specialty that pretty made him a shoe-in for National Alchemist in a couple of years. Many alchemists went in search of something esoteric and unique to ensure passing the exam; Roy had found his golden apple almost immediately, in a place few ever thought to look: right at the core of alchemy, in the greatest of the four elements.
He had passed, of course, and only months later, war had broken out in Ishval, and Roy Mustang, Flame Alchemist became officially Major Roy Mustang, Flame Alchemist.
Fire was the highest of the elements, the greatest, the noblest, but it was hard to remember that sometimes, when Roy's alchemy brought nothing but terrible holocaust; his fire was not the fire of Sol, but that of Gehenna, and it burned with a terrible fury. And every night, Roy had to remind himself of fire's true purpose, to purify, and temper, and perfect.
It rarely worked. But Roy endured, with the knowledge that the war would be over someday. And then someday, he would put his alchemy to a better use; his would be the fire of Sol again, and he would burn away all that was wrong with his country. Someday.